


Oscar? Don't know him.

by LivefromG25



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Do not read if triggered by threats to leisurewear, Established Relationship, M/M, Oscars snub, Potential cure for insomnia, Use of Timothee as a conduit for rage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 15:29:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17603972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivefromG25/pseuds/LivefromG25
Summary: Timothee didn't get nominated so he lies down and has a good hard think about it.Riveting, I know.





	Oscar? Don't know him.

**Author's Note:**

> No idea what this is.
> 
> Thank you to my handholder.

 

He blinked at the screen again. This… this couldn’t be right. Right? Refreshed the app. Reopened his messages. The same five names stared back at him.

 

Fuck.

 

 _FUCK_. A manic giggle bubbled its way up his chest, escaping his lips before he could tamper it down. He sat suspended in limbo between genuine laughter and tears, the threat of both constricting his throat until it felt almost impossible to breathe. He could feel his face reddening with shame, flushing further with the realisation he was alone and shame was futile.

 

He stared at the names again as if he could somehow morph one of them, twist an M into a T, crumple up a couple, rip off the tip of an S to fabricate an aigu. This made no sense, this was impossible. Except for the fact it wasn’t. He’d known was a possibility… he just didn’t really realise it was a probability.

 

One too many _less than successful_ meetings last year should have been a hint that this could be his reality. Many a tight smile and a _Thanks for coming, Timothée_ or, on more than one occasion, a firm handshake and a whispered _I really_ hope _you don't regret this._ Options laid out on a table like choices when the real question was simple; what price for your soul?

 

Falling back on the bed with a groan, he closed his eyes and tried to steady the racing of his heart. The phone began to ring in his hand and without even checking it his fingers spoke for him, silencing it before throwing it across the mattress.

 

Turns out those threats hadn't been so empty after all. He'd refused to play the game, refused to sign his name to documents that couldn't be less confusing if they'd been written in braille and now here he was - After all his hard work, after all of the promo, after all of the … other _shit_ , bending over backwards to dispel any rumour that he'd a preference for any other way. None of it fucking mattered. Anger rippled across his skin, settling low in his stomach, his hands fisting at his sides.

 

Tears pooled beneath his closed lids before slipping into his hair, dampening the curls. He tried to focus on the sensation of the droplets trickling into the shell of his ear to ground him. To stop himself thinking of anything else.

 

It worked for a moment or two as the waves of resentment continued their assault, crashing against the rock where his heart used to be. He felt cold, could taste the salt.

 

This was a vast ocean away from last years experience. Things were supposed to be on the rise. At least, that’s what people kept telling him and he’d believed it. He cursed himself now for the temporary amnesia. Was he really that blinded by words that he’d forgotten everything he learnt?

 

Deep down, he’d known Best Actor had come with strings. Talent only gets you so far and then it’s up to politics to take you home. Despite knowing, he hadn’t anticipated the shock of actually _being_ nominated. Especially not for a role that had felt to him like slipping on his own skin and it took him to a level of elation he had never felt before. Or since.  Tears then of joy, streaming down his face as he’d jumped into Armie’s waiting arms, needing someone to hold him to prove that this moment was real.

 

_Armie._

 

His initial excitement had given way to despair as the realisation sunk in that Armie hadn’t received a nomination. He’d apologised profusely for his elation, hands alighting on Armie’s chest, shoulders, torso as if touching him could alleviate guilt.

 

Armie had bracketed his face, forcing him to meet his warm, open, _loving_ gaze before pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead, muttered words of praise and reassurance cascading from his lips. _It’s okay, I am happy for you. This isn’t about me. This is all you._

 

It wasn’t until later, only a couple of hours later, that everything had come crashing down. News had filtered through that there had been a bit of a miscalculation, than an apparent ‘foolproof plan’ had gone a little awry.

 

He wiped his eyes and shifted on the bed as he recalled the way Armie had stormed out with the force of a thousand men after it came to light that the team had fucked up; hadn’t anticipated the reach the film would have, the legions of fans Timothee would bring and by default, Armie. That Armie would suddenly have a solid fan base to speak to, to gain attention from, to profit upon. They’d hedged their bets and they’d gotten it wrong.

 

It had been left to Timothee as the only person Armie would agree to speak to pick up the pieces.

 

He’d rushed in the room as soon as the door opened an inch, platitudes about how great of an actor Armie was falling from his lips. Armie brushed them off straight away, he didn’t need them. He wasn’t upset because he thought he wasn’t a good actor nor was he upset that he wouldn’t win an award. He’d sat them both on the edge of the bed, holding Timothee’s shaking hands between his own. He was genuinely delighted for him, knew it would launch his career into the stratosphere and would give him _choices._ He loved that Tim wouldn’t be forced to take just any job to be able to pay his way, that he would be granted opportunities and be in the eye of people with influence, the power to shape his career any which way he wanted. Armie had held him close as he spoke of how much he deserved this – win or lose – because his talent should speak for itself in roles designed with him in mind.

 

Armie had tried to also brush off his rage, didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to ruin Timothee’s day or diminish his achievement by overrunning his mouth on the behind the scenes strategies and game play.

 

It had taken Timothee two hours, loss of naivety, three scene reenactments and a career-threatening video recording just to make Armie smile before he opened up. Spoke of how he was angry because he had been been forced to _care_ . That having not been nominated - something he knew would never happen, regardless of a plan - was suddenly a _thing_ , that there had been strategy and planning that affected his career and he hadn’t even been told about it.

 

And more than that, it affected Crema; his safe space away from the studios, away from the criticisms, away from the machine and yet here it was being held in the jaws of the monster anyway and it was going to be destroyed. His idyllic summer would end up being tarnished by the awards he didn’t win and yet never wanted.

 

Eventually he agreed to continue to work, to go to interview after interview on the promise that Timothee would deflect any talk that threatened his hold on his temper. But he would do it his way, in true Armie fashion, and if anyone had a problem with it, they could ‘ _shove their commitments up their arseholes_ ’, he’d be out. Timothee had known then he had picked a good man to emulate and now, a year down the line, forced deep breaths into his lungs and, on each exhale, reminded himself that he’d been blessed to start his career with people for whom fame was more an unfortunate byproduct than an aspiration, who favoured rich dreams over pockets, who knew the bounty over their heads and refused to hand it over for false promises and empty dreams.

 

A sharp rap on the door pulled him out of his thoughts and, rubbing a sleeve across his face, he got up from the bed and padded to the doorway. He checked his face in the mirror as he passed and hoped whoever was at the door wasn't someone he needed to impress. He looked like shit.

 

“Mr Chalamet? A package for you”. Thankfully, just a member of the concierge - who has no doubt seen people in worse states than bleary eyed - proffering a large, unmarked box.  He took it with a crinkled brow and a muttered thank you, kicking the door closed behind him.

 

Placing it on the edge of the bed, he fished his key card out of his pocket to slice open the thin tape securing the lid. For a split second his mind jumped to scenarios worthy of movie scripts; anthrax, a bomb, human remains before he broke into a laugh as the folds gave way.

 

“God, it’s _fucking worse”._ With ironic joy he took the items out of the box, bending down to retrieve a note which had fluttered to his feet.

 

“ _ **You didn’t tell Nic’s story to be rewarded and your value doesn't decrease because of their inability to see your worth.**_

_**Screw ‘em.** _

_**#traxsuitgamestrong #iboughtstocks #hallmarkquotes #amIdoingthishashtagthingright? "** _

 

  
Still giggling, he quickly stripped and pulled the tricot three-striped tracksuit bottoms up his slim legs, forgoing a t-shirt under the jacket, zipping it half way. Unable to suppress his smile, he grabbed his phone from where it had been tossed aside and snapped a full length picture - middle finger obscuring his face.

 

**< Photo>**

**< You were right - they don’t take you out to dinner before they fuck you.>**

 

_ <Nope. Straight in. Raw. Tried calling, you okay?> _

 

**< Better now.>**

 

_ <Talk to me.> _

 

**< I’m okay. Honestly. It’s not like we didn’t know. I guess I just … hoped? Stupid, huh?>**

 

_ <Nope. One of the reasons I love you. Ring me when you’re ready?> _

 

**< Sure…>**

 

**< The other reason is clearly my insatiable desire to please you by even entertaining this fit; you know this traxsuit is getting burned, right?>**

 

_ <In its own ceremonial bonfire no doubt - appreciate the pictorial solidarity at least, baby.> _

 

_ <Listen; I need you to remember two things. Always.> _

 

_ <Awards are no substitute for integrity.> _

 

_ <And> _

 

_ <I love you. x> _

 

**< I know. Both. Thank you. 'On to the rest of life!' ILY2 xo>**


End file.
